Remembrance - 3. Grandma Ruth

Grandma Ruth

We all have those fuzzy images of our early childhood. For me, some of the earliest revolve around the birth of my brother, Jimmy. He was born in July of 1973. On the day of his birth I would also have perhaps some of the earliest images of my Grandma Ruth.

Mom tottered into the room before dawn to kiss me and in doing so woke me up. I slid out of bed and watched as my father bundled her into the car and drove off while my next door neighbor, and soon to be godmother of Jimmy, watched them go before making sure I was dressed and fed. Seems breakfast was barely done when my grandmother arrived in her little green Volkswagen bug with my grandfather.

In a word she was scary. She was dressed in her blue skirt with a jacket and stiff white cap, which later I would later find out, was a crossing guard outfit. Her hair, was snow white and cut fairly short. She marched in like a solider and crisply took charge of the house and me. With little effort she made sure the house was clean and neat, my bag packed, and before I realized it was bundled into that car of hers to go back to her home. My grandfather seemed to take a seat and vanish while she took care of all the necessities.

My family lived in Holbrook, New York at the time and my father wasn’t a big one for travel. His mother, Ruth, lived in Babylon. It wasn’t the longest of drives, just about 20 minutes but for a kid who doesn’t really realize what is going on it was a drive of hours. I was fascinated watching her drive her car because unlike my parent’s car she drove a stick shift. My grandmother was the sort who focused on her driving, and as a child I was fairly quiet. I was entertained just seeing the scenery change and watching her shift gears from the back seat. My grandfather always seemed bored when they drove and was silent while he tuned the radio to one of the many religious programs he listened to.

Walking into my grandmother’s house that first time would always leave certain impressions on me- images of safety, warmth, and above all a sense of home. As you entered the house the first thing you noticed was the piano. Sitting on top of it was her cut crystal bowl filled with mints that had jelly in them. To the left was the living room and to the right was the kitchen. Whenever you entered the house two smells would assault your nose, oatmeal cookies and pledge.

This stern woman who appeared all stiff and proper outside her door changed dramatically two seconds after entering her own abode. She walked me quickly to her sister’s room, my great-aunt Florence where a cot had been set up for me. She deposited my suitcase and told me she would be right back. The sounds of her dog Mimi, a toy poodle, could be heard as she ran back and forth between my grandmother and grandfather.

“Follow me, Wayne,” came the gentle voice of my Great-aunt Florence.

Aunt Florence took me gently to the kitchen and set me down with a glass of milk and a couple of oatmeal cookies. It seems my cookie hadn’t even made it to the glass when my grandmother returned. This was not the same woman who had driven me to her home. Here was a woman any child would happily call grandma. She wore a simple top with comfortable slacks, her hair no longer hidden under a cap, and her manner was totally relaxed. A large smile radiated from her face and she began to joke with Aunt Florence about the fact that she was about to be a grandmother for the ninth time.

This was the woman who had barely spoken more than a few words to me the whole time had suddenly became a chatter box. She tossed a dozen stories of my father at me, had me on the floor coloring, playing the board game Trouble, watching television, and keeping me entertained. The day passed in a blur punctuated with food, games, and Mimi running in circles barking because she was being ignored.

My grandmother and Aunt Florence shared cooking responsibilities and the meals were delicious. It is sort of funny how food and stories always seemed to go together. While lunch had been a simple affair of sandwiches, that wasn’t where these two women shined, it would be during a dinner they could cook and talk that would show the comfort and talent of both women. That first night, as I worried where my mother was, my grandmother asked me if I liked green beans. She laughed as she seen the expression on my face.

“Just like your father. I swear that boy never liked to eat. Your grandfather use to make him sit there and look at the food he never liked. Your father couldn’t get up till your grandfather was done. Of course as soon as he left the room your father fed his food to the dog and made himself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.”

Aunt Florence laughed as she turned to see my face first upset and then wondering.

“Dad didn’t like to eat?”

“That boy was so damn fussy.”

“But he is always saying …”

“Don’t let him fool you, Wayne. He was as fussy as you are.”

Then her rich laughter would fill the room as she grabbed an ear of corn out of the refrigerator to cook for me instead. A stuffed chicken, green beans, corn, fresh rolls, salad, and cranberry sauce were soon deposited on a table for the four of us. Dinner would be a meal where food was eaten, stories told, and you rolled yourself off the chair to follow my grandmother outside.

Evening was her time to do her crafts. Aunt Florence would clean up and follow her outside, while my grandfather retired to the living room to watch television. The two women would sit and knit or crochet blankets even in the hottest of weather. My grandmother always kept a steady flow of talk going to keep me interested while my great-aunt worked in silence. She would make beautiful blankets with richly colored yarns in blues, greens, yellows, and reds. The two women would make crazy squares which they would later crochet together into large blankets. Sometimes they would sit and make baby blankets. They would switch back and forth between two or three different projects. Seeing my interested looks she would always explain.

“It helps to keep from getting bored. Besides, Wayne, if you work too long on one project in this heat, your lap gets too hot.”

Besides being outside was one of her favorite places. It also gave her an excuse to indulge in one of her favorite things as well, because about forty minutes or so after dinner you could guarantee that the ice cream man would be down her block. The sounds of the Mr. Softie truck always made her smile.

“I hear that truck. Wayne, go ask your grandfather if he wants anything, Florence, would you like a vanilla cone?”

It never seemed to matter what anyone would say because before I was back outside she was at the truck ordering four small vanilla cones, with colored sprinkles. Sitting down to enjoy the ice cream you could see the small smile that hovered around her face. My father arrived before the ice cream was done to tell us my mother had given birth to my brother, James.

“Wayne, glad to see you are being good for your grandmother. You will be staying with her for a few days.”

“Where’s mom?”

“In the hospital. You have a baby brother now.”

“Can’t I go home with you?”

“No. I have to go to work and stop to see your mother. When she goes to come home you and your grandmother will meet us there. Okay?”

“Okay.”

Seems after my brother was born, I was always welcomed at grandma’s house. My summer vacations were always spent with her. Christmas always meant Grandma Ruth was coming to our house, which also meant all my aunts and uncles would be there and by extension their children as well. From the ages of four till nine my times spent with my grandmother were some of the happiest I had.

I lost her when I turned to ten to cancer. She had moved into the same nursing home that her sister, my great-aunt Florence had moved into after her stroke. In barely a few months the once robust woman who was always so full of life had shriveled and lost so much to the cancer that had eaten her from the inside. Now every Christmas, whenever I go home, I see the glass bowl that once sat on her piano on my mother’s counter filled with taffy. My own love of oatmeal cookies can be traced back to the many fresh baked ones that my grandmother continually seemed to have in her apple shaped cookie jar in the kitchen. And to this day the smell of pledge still brings up memories of her house with its wood floors and the afternoons spent coloring and playing games with my grandmother.